


Mixed Drinks and Crossed Wires

by korlaena



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Auror Harry Potter, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, EWE, Face-Fucking, Friends to Lovers, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Side Ginny/Pansy, side ron/hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-03-25 21:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korlaena/pseuds/korlaena
Summary: Draco is a handsy drunk. Harry is okay with it, really. They’re friends, so it doesn’t mean anything.





	Mixed Drinks and Crossed Wires

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Mixed Drinks and Crossed Wires  
>  **Author:** korlaena  
>  **Prompt:** # 105  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warnings/Content Notes:** Drunken kissing (but all sex happens while sober), face fucking, light dom/sub dynamic  
>  **Summary:** Draco is a handsy drunk. Harry is okay with it, really. They’re friends, so it doesn’t mean anything.  
>  **Word Count:** ~16k  
>  **Author’s Notes:** I got the idea stuck in my head of Draco being very tactile while drunk and because of this Harry dismisses his flirting, and when I saw the prompt it seemed like the perfect opportunity to explore this idea. I intended this to be a short PWP, but of course it ended up rather differently than I expected.  
>  Many thanks to my amazing beta, [Shannon](https://kiyokolesbians.tumblr.com/), for all your help catching my mistakes and improving my fic!  
> And so many thanks to the wonderful [llap115](https://llap115.tumblr.com/) for helping me with my title! <3
> 
> See end notes for how consent is handled in this fic.

Draco is laughing as he spins Hermione around the dance floor. Harry can see him through the window. In one glance he can tell that Draco is already drunk and he knows what sort of night he is in for. 

Ron and Harry just spent the last five hours chasing down a false lead, and as such the rest of their group already has a good head start on drinking. 

“Mate?” 

Harry tears his eyes away from Draco to see Ron staring at him, holding the thick, wooden door to the pub open. 

Here we go again, Harry thinks. He takes a breath and steps through the door. 

Inside the pub is lit with dim, orange lighting and is filled with the sounds and smells of a busy pub—the bittersweet smell of stale alcohol and oil from the fryers, and the loud, unintelligible buzz of too many people trying to talk over the music and each other. 

The tables, chairs and panelling are all made of a dark, rich wood, and the walls are covered in an eclectic hodgepodge of flags, posters, and photos. One wall is lined with booths and opposite it is a long bar overcrowded with too many patrons. On the far end of the room are a few pub games, a currently unoccupied stage and an open space in front of it for dancing. 

The floor feels gummy under Harry’s trainers, and he knows the tables will be sticky too. The pub is crowded, just on the side of uncomfortable with how warm and humid it feels from too many people packed into the space. But the beer is cold, the chips are always fried to perfection, and most importantly—this is their pub. It’s familiar and relaxing in a way that already has the tense set of Harry’s shoulders loosening.

Harry and Ron find their group at the usual table, consisting of Neville, Luna, Seamus, Dean, Ginny, and Blaise. Harry knows Pansy's schedule isn't consistent, George doesn't always show, and Angelina and Lee usually only join them if George does. Still, it's a decent turn out for their weekly get together.

Harry drops into a chair next to Neville and shucks his coat. Instead of sitting, Ron plants his hands on his hips and watches Draco and Hermione playfully dancing a few feet from their table.

“Oi! How about letting me dance with my wife, Malfoy?” he shouts to be heard over the din.

With a fake expression of surprise and a gasp, Draco says loudly, “Oh, I didn’t see you there, Weasley. You’re absolutely right, how unforgivably rude of me.” 

Draco sends Hermione out of his arms with a smooth twirl back towards their table and, with a grace that belies his drunken state, he swans over to Ron and grabs his hands, pulling him out onto the dance floor. Ron resists initially, but soon enough he gets swept into the dance with a laugh. 

As ever, Ron looks awkward and gangly, long limbs not quite going where they should, juxtaposed by Draco gracefully waltzing around him to Journey’s _Open Arms_ playing from the ancient jukebox in the far corner.

It’s mad how comfortable they’ve all become with each other since the war. As Harry watches them dance together, odd pair that they are, he can’t help ruminating on how they got here. 

It took nearly five years and many arguments for them to reach this level of understanding and acceptance of each other. Harry’s not sure it would have been possible without Draco’s unshakable, mulish determination to secure a position working in the DMLE in Arthur’s brand-new department, the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. He fought for years against discrimination and his own history to gain Arthur’s trust and carve out a space for himself in the department. 

Harry’s not sure anyone else could have done it either. Draco has proven time and again that not only is he the most stubborn, hard-headed person in the room but he always gets his way. 

His career choice had put them squarely in each other’s orbits, and they had _had_ to get along. It was that or blow up the Ministry in one final, spectacular duel.

It had taken Harry the longest to come around. At first, they avoided each other as much as possible, and when their departments were forced to work together they played nice in front of the higher ups and fought like cats and dogs as soon as they weren’t being watched.

They argued over every aspect of the war. Harry hated that Draco didn’t regret enough of his choices, that he felt justified in his actions. Draco hated that Harry saw everything in such black and white terms.

It wasn’t until three years into Draco’s job at the Ministry, after a particularly difficult game of Quidditch between their departments, that it all came to a head. They had such a nasty row that it resulted in wands drawn and blowing out an entire wall of the locker room. 

Luckily no one had been hurt, and afterward Draco had burst into laughter and couldn’t stop. After a moment of confusion, Harry had collapsed on the floor with him and they laid back, laughing and laughing at the remains of the wall, and something between them had clicked into place.

It didn’t solve all their problems, but Harry felt like he’d finally seen Draco for the first time that day. Like blowing out that wall had blown down the wall between them, and they could interact without immediately wanting to strangle each other.

Their superiors had been furious, and they had both received a month of suspension without pay. Afterward, they’d gone out for coffee and talked until the sun rose. Harry sometimes thinks that that sunrise marked the first day of Harry’s budding love for Draco, and therefore, the first day of what would surely lead to his ruination. 

It wasn’t easy, and they still fought at times, but something had shifted in their dynamic that day that allowed them to try to talk rather than shout and to try to listen rather than talk over each other.

Now here they are, four years later, and Draco has been completely absorbed into their group. They play Quidditch on the weekends, he’s partners with Neville in his greenhouse business, he joins them every Friday for their pub night, and he even went with them last year on their group holiday to Australia. 

At the end of the war Harry never would have believed such a thing would ever happen, least of all that he would be here now, pining, arse over tit for _Malfoy_. 

Harry watches Ron and Draco before he turns away from their revelry, a warm sensation already resting in his stomach without the aid of alcohol. He gets up and walks to the bar, squeezing between a couple patrons and waiting to catch the bartender’s attention. 

It’s a busy night, and he’s still waiting his turn to order when, a few minutes later, he feels a pair of hands slide over his shoulders and down his chest, clasping together over his collarbones. 

“What are you getting for me?” The words wash across Harry’s ear as a warm body leans into his back and a cheek presses against Harry’s.

He doesn’t need to turn to know that it’s Draco, even before he spoke Harry knows Draco is the only person who gets this clingy with him. He can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“How much have you had already?” Harry counters, glancing at Draco with a raised eyebrow.

Draco pouts and rests his pointy chin on Harry’s shoulder. “Not enough.”

Harry rolls his shoulder to get Draco to move his chin, which is currently digging painfully into his trapezius. 

Draco tightens his octopus grip on Harry and digs his chin in deeper, knowing exactly how to get what he wants like the spoiled brat he is.

“Alright, alright,” Harry grouses, pushing Draco’s face off of him. “Gin and tonic?” 

“Aww, you know me so well,” Draco coos and pinches one of Harry’s cheeks, shaking it back and forth. 

“Come off it.” Harry swats Draco’s hand away, but he can’t help the smile tugging up the edge of his mouth. “Just how early of a start did you get?”

Draco laughs at that, leaning against Harry so one arm is around his shoulder and the line of his side is pressed flush against Harry’s. “Early? I think maybe you’re confused, Potter. Not that I’m surprised. It’s late. Very late,” Draco explains wryly. “What is it? Are you still killing yourself over the Wilson case?”

With a sigh Harry nods, and Draco rubs a hand soothingly in circles over his back. The bartender comes around to them and Harry starts a tab, ordering an IPA for himself and Draco’s gin and tonic. 

“Thaaank yooouuu,” Draco croons, stretching the vowels out and giggling drunkenly. Despite the explicit gratitude, it comes out sounding snobby and entitled, like a brat that only says thanks because he’s expected to but knew he was going to get what he wanted all along. 

It’s ridiculous how fond it makes Harry feel, especially considering how much he hated witnessing that trait in Dudley. These days Harry has a hard time not feeling fond of many things about Draco that used to annoy him. The git has gotten under his skin, slowly but surely, over the last few years.

While they watch the bartender pour their drinks, Draco idly plays with the shorter hairs on Harry’s neck, and Harry has to resist shivering from the sensation.

“Have you tracked down the maker of those pendants?” Draco asks casually.

It sounds like a conversation they might have at work, except Draco’s accent slurs a bit and his fingers slide in and out, in and out of Harry’s hair in a hypnotic manner. Draco is looking at him with a relaxed smile, shoulders loose and unburdened, nothing at all how he looks at Auror Potter in the Ministry. 

“I don’t want to talk about the case with you right now,” Harry says tiredly.

Draco flaps a hand in the air dismissively. “Of course not, the high and mighty Auror never deigns to speak of your cases to me. That is, until you come down to my office, tail between your legs, begging for my help.”

Harry knows it’s meant as a joke, he has a much better grasp on Draco’s sense of humour these days, but because of this Harry can’t help noticing how his tone comes out a bit too sharp. The last thing Harry wants to do right now is fight, so he chooses to play like he doesn’t notice and rolls with the joke. 

“Begging? Is that what you call departmental cooperation? No wonder your world view is so slanted,” Harry says with a smile and a shake of his head. “You don’t even need a drink to get tipsy, do you? You’re already looking down at everyone else.” To another person the words might sound harsh, but this is how they joke with each other. It works for them.

Draco makes an offended noise and smacks Harry’s head lightly. His tone is back to being light and playful as he says, “I would be more offended, except it is true you Auror rabble are beneath me.”

Harry jabs Draco in the ribs and, after a surprised huff, Draco just laughs at Harry. 

“You don’t have a comeback because you know it’s true,” he drawls with a smug smile.

“No, I don’t need to say anything. We already proved in the last Quidditch match which department is on top,” Harry says, knowing exactly the sort of response he’s going to get and smirks once it comes.

Draco squawks loudly and shoves away from Harry, swaying a bit on his feet. “You know you only won that match because you cheated, Potter!” he accuses, pointer finger stabbing so close to Harry’s face it actually bumps against his glasses. “You purposely mislead me, and—”

The rant gets cut off abruptly as the much more important alcoholic drinks are presented to them by the bartender, and the expression on Draco’s face instantly changes from fury to delight. When Draco reaches for his gin and tonic, Harry slaps his hand away. 

Draco gives him his hurt puppy-dog face, but Harry sternly shakes his head.

“Never again, Draco. I carry your drink or you don’t get it.” Draco is notorious for spilling his drinks. He is especially notorious for spilling them on Harry for some unknown, but not hard to guess, reason.

“Fine. But if you must insist on carrying my drink, then I insist you carry me too,” Draco demands snobbishly, nose in the air. “I know how much you love being of service to me.”

The words paint a certain picture and make Harry’s cheeks feel a bit warm, but he quickly pushes the image of being on his knees in front of Draco away. The double entendre is surely unintentional. “Sure, Draco. It’s not at all because you’re too sloshed to make it to the table on your own without swerving.”

“Not at all,” Draco echoes imperiously. “I made it over to you just fine, didn’t I?”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure you did,” Harry agrees, though his tone suggests otherwise. 

When Harry turns away from the bar toward their table, Draco throws an arm over his shoulders and leans most of his weight on Harry. Harry would put an arm around his waist to steady him if his hands weren’t already full. 

Harry moves slowly so as not to spill their drinks and so Draco can keep up easily. They make it to their table without incident, and Harry sets the drinks down before grabbing Draco’s arm to make sure he makes it into his seat alright. Sometimes Draco is the most graceful drunk and other times he can’t sit straight in a chair. Harry has learned to expect the flailing and the stumbling to prevent accidents as much as possible.

When Harry’s sure Draco is settled and not going to tip over, he hands him his drink. Draco smiles at him, takes a large swig of it, and throws an arm around Harry’s shoulder and pulls him in to place a big, wet, gin-smelling kiss on Harry’s cheek. 

With a groan Harry shoves Draco away and wipes at his cheek, huffing out an, “Arse.”

Draco laughs at him and seems unaware of the bit of his drink that spilled over the rim onto his lap when Harry pushed him. He just grins and takes a smaller sip, his arm still draped across Harry’s shoulders. 

Harry settles in, drinking from his pint glass and relaxing into Draco’s side, his embrace familiar and unsurprising at this point. He tunes in to a conversation Ron, Blaise and Ginny are having about Quidditch and exhales, long and steady, letting the events of a hard, stressful day seep out of his mind. 

Upon hearing Harry’s sigh, Draco turns his head and regards him curiously, one eyebrow arched in question. Harry gives him a soft smile and shakes his head minutely, and Draco smiles back in understanding. He drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder and yawns. 

Harry’s a little disappointed that he missed most of pub night and they’re already at the point where Draco is ready to fall asleep on him. Soon Harry will have to shuttle him off home, but he’s glad for it nonetheless. 

Draco is a notoriously handsy drunk. His casual and overly familiar touches would make any outside observer think they are dating. The truth is simply that he’s like this with all his friends when he’s tipsy. He dances with them, grips their arm while telling a joke, gives shoulder massages when they’re having a bad night, cuddles up to whoever is sitting next to him, and sits in their lap when there’s not enough room or just when he feels he isn’t getting enough attention. 

It’s been going on long enough now that the Prophet has written many scathing articles about Draco’s supposed romantic involvement with no less than a dozen different friends. They even wrote one about Ron and Draco having a sordid affair behind Hermione’s back. Harry had collapsed on the floor laughing after he read it, incapacitated for a full ten minutes. He’d cut out the article and stuck it to his fridge to tease Ron mercilessly with it at every opportunity.

Just as Harry is planning how he’ll get Draco’s drink out of his hand before he inevitably doses off and tips it onto Harry’s lap, the jukebox in the corner of the room starts playing _Opposites Attract_ by Paula Abdul.

Draco’s head springs up like a dog as soon as he hears it and swivels to Seamus, who’s already got his eyes locked on him. They both move at the same time, jumping up and racing each other to the dance floor. It’s a miracle Draco set his glass down first, and Harry’s hand darts out reflexively when it lands wrong and tilts dangerously in his direction.

It’s an old, long-standing challenge between them that whenever this song comes on they both have to out-dance each other to it. First to drop out loses, first to get everyone’s vote wins. It came out of a drinking game they played months back and is still going on because neither has secured a winning amount of votes yet. 

Everyone in their group pauses at least momentarily in their conversations to watch the spectacle, hooting and spurring them on. 

The dance-off has yet to get old. It’s always a hilarious sight, watching Draco aggressively pirouetting at Seamus, who is trying his level best to breakdance, dropping to the floor and spinning around on his back like an egg. The blatant difference in their dancing styles alone is a constant source of amusement. 

Draco looks like he just did a jeté out of West Side Story, and Seamus looks like he just walked out of a Vanilla Ice music video. It’s the biggest reason why they couldn’t agree on who won the original challenge months ago, and why it’s still ridiculously funny today. 

Harry can appreciate Seamus’s modern style, and he has voted for him once before, but mostly he’s enraptured by Draco’s classic form and endless grace while drunk. Normally he spends the entire song watching Draco and tonight is no exception.

At the end of it the two of them turn towards their table. Draco bows formally and Seamus plants his feet and throws a gang sign. 

“Those in favour of Seamus raise your hand!” Ginny calls, and just under half the table raises theirs. 

Harry’s hand stays down, and Draco directs a grin at him that is blindingly bright as he makes his way back. 

“Neither competitor has received enough votes for a clear win. Challenge stands!” Ginny concludes in her authoritative impression of a Quidditch commentator.

Seamus groans and Draco rolls his eyes.

Even if he weren’t completely enthralled by Draco, Harry learned his lesson not to vote against him after the one and only time he tried it. 

For the last year, after Draco had discovered the abysmal lunches Kreacher made for him, Draco had taken it upon himself to always bring extra food to work for Harry. 

After Harry voted for Seamus, Draco spent a week ruining his lunch order so that he always ended up with anchovies and pickles on his sandwich, and beets in his salad, which he knows Harry hates. 

At the following pub night Harry had made sure the jukebox played _Opposites Attract_ and promptly voted for Draco. His lunches that week had been filled with almond Danishes and treacle tarts, just like he knew Harry liked. 

Harry will not be at all surprised the day Draco wins this competition. He has a strong feeling that he is slowly bribing each of their friends to vote for him instead of Seamus. In the end, Draco always gets his way. 

Before Draco can drop into his chair, Harry quickly shifts his drink out of range of those long, sometimes graceful, sometimes glass-seeking-missile-like arms. When Draco is in his seat and doesn’t seem as likely to fall over, Harry hands him his drink. 

Draco smiles and takes it, throwing it all back like a shot and slamming the highball glass down onto the table. He’s smiling wide and panting, his face flushed and a bit sweaty from exertion. He winks at Harry and turns away to join the heated debate Seamus just started with Ron about modern dance. 

Harry sips his beer and leans back, turning his attention away from the dancing debate and towards the conversation on his left. Neville, Luna, Hermione, and Dean are discussing how certain magical herbs could be implemented into Muggle medical practices. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hermione scoffs and shakes her head.

“No! Listen, all you’d have to do is patent the seeds so you controlled the market, have them grown and harvested by wizards, and only sell those harvested leaves to hospitals. They can’t grow them if they don’t have access to any seeds. As long as you have total legal control, I don’t think there’d be an issue,” Dean argues.

“If it could help people, why shouldn’t you want to do it?” Luna asks plainly.

“I dunno…” Neville says, chewing his lip. “What about the Ministry? You really think they wouldn’t consider that a breach of the Statute of Secrecy?” 

“Forget the Ministry, that’s not the point,” Hermione waves it away irritably. “You can’t just sell a new drug without it going through extensive testing. What happens when Muggle scientists take them into their labs and try to study them?”

“You sue the pants off ‘em.” Dean grins widely and Hermione throws her hands up in exasperation.

Harry can’t help laughing. He plays the devil’s advocate and poses the question of what if they took it a step further and sold potions to Muggles packaged like vitamins or herbal remedies, which starts a new round of debate and bickering.

Some time later Harry feels Draco’s head drop to his shoulder again. Draco blinks up at him and smiles, then wraps his arms around Harry’s right biceps and snuggles into him. He throws a leg over Harry’s in his drunken attempt to cuddle, and he probably has more of his body sprawled over Harry than he has in his own chair. Harry doesn’t mind though, he’s used to Draco falling asleep on him at the end of the night. 

There’s a small part of Harry that swells with pride when Draco does this. He loves that in his intoxicated, vulnerable state Draco trusts Harry enough to fall asleep on him. He loves that Draco seeks Harry out—Harry has noticed. Draco is a handsy drunk. He’s a flirty drunk. He jokes with and touches everyone, but at the end of the night it’s always Harry he comes to when he’s tired and seeking comfort.

Harry looks around and sees that everyone else seems close to winding down too. Harry’s not sure when he left, but Blaise is already gone, and Ron is rubbing Hermione’s back and giving her a look Harry recognises as him wordlessly telling her he’s ready to go home. Neville is stretching and yawning, and Luna is blinking at her watch as if surprised by how late it is. 

Harry’s not even tipsy, he finished his beer a while ago and never got up to replace it. It’s probably better that way anyway, Harry reasons. He’s taking Teddy to the aquarium tomorrow and it’s sure to be more fun without a hangover.

Chairs scrape across the floor as their group slowly gets up to leave for the night, exchanging tired farewells. Reaching across with his left hand, Harry brushes Draco’s hair behind his ear.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” he chides. “Let’s get you on the Knight Bus, then you’re no longer my responsibility.”

Draco grumbles and tightens his grip on Harry’s arm. 

Harry huffs and shakes his shoulder. “Come on,” he eggs him. 

Slowly, after several minutes of waking Draco up, prying his long octopus limbs off of him and enduring much of Draco’s more colourful word choice, Harry gets Draco on his feet and headed out of the pub. 

On the curb, Harry fumbles for his wand while trying to support almost all of Draco’s weight but manages to draw it and raise it in the air. 

Harry drags Draco up the stairs into the bus. He nods at the ancient wizard in the driver’s seat and says, “Take him home, Ernie.”

He pays the fare and guides Draco to one of the comfortable armchairs. Before he leaves, Draco’s hand lingers on Harry, searing a path down Harry’s left shoulder blade, and leaving behind a warmth on Harry’s skin that penetrates the layers of his clothes. 

Upon exiting the Knight Bus, Harry has once again decided that that’s it. He’s reached his breaking point. He loves his friendship with Draco, but he can’t let it go on like this without telling him how he feels. Come Monday, Harry is going to confess and ask Draco out.

~

“I apologise for my behaviour at the pub on Friday,” Draco says breezily, as if checking an item off a to-do list. The words tossed out so carelessly, so flippantly, hit Harry like a bucket of ice water, effectively dowsing that small flame Harry had been tending. The same flame he lights every Friday with Draco so close and warm and happy, only to be snuffed out the following Monday. 

Harry had had his mouth open ready to confess his feelings, but Draco apologised before he could get the words out.

It’s been going on like this for months. Maybe longer, depending on how you look at it. It’s hard to define exactly when Draco had initiated contact. At first the touches had been fleeting, polite—a tap on the shoulder, bumping knees under the table, picking lint off Harry’s jumper.

As time went on, the touches became different, more familiar—a hand gripping Harry’s arm as Draco guffawed at his joke, an arm thrown over Harry’s shoulder as Draco mocked him mercilessly, and, memorably, a hand squeezing above Harry’s knee and lingering there after a hard day. 

Which brought them to the present, where Draco would shamelessly throw himself on Harry, sitting in his lap or sticking his feet in Harry’s lap. Falling asleep on his shoulder at the end of the night. Dragging him onto the dance floor to dance with him. And somehow he can always tell when Harry’s had a long day, and he gives him shoulder massages like it’s a perfectly natural thing for friends to do for each other. 

Harry shakes off his disappointment and settles in to eat lunch with Draco. It’s better this way. 

~

On Wednesday another victim of cursed necklaces being sold as protection charms pops up, and Harry drags Draco out with him to collect the object while Harry and Ron investigate. 

It’s a violently blustery day, but somehow Draco’s hair manages to look pristine and perfect, even after being tossed about by the wind. Harry can’t help noticing it while he’s supposed to be interviewing witnesses.

When he finishes getting all the eyewitness accounts, Harry looks around for Ron and finds him chatting up the Obliviator who’d come to deal with the Muggles on scene. The victim’s death had been sudden and gruesome when the charm had activated, and not at all something they could explain in a Muggle way. 

Harry slips his notepad back into his robe and nods at Ron when they make eye contact, indicating that he’s finished interviewing the Muggles. 

The Oblivator moves to start her work, and Harry makes his way to Draco who is carefully levitating the necklace off what’s left of the victim’s torso into a curse box.

“How is it your hair looks like that in this kind of weather?” Harry teases him on approach. It seems a ridiculous subject, but Harry could use something silly to lighten the dark cloud surrounding this case. Draco is always good at distracting Harry from the darker elements of his job.

“Because I make an effort with it, unlike some,” Draco says blandly, eyes never leaving his work. 

He doesn’t question Harry’s choice of topic while standing mere inches from the gory remains of their victim. He never does, he’s intuitive like that—good at judging Harry’s moods. Harry thinks it’s one of the reasons why they’ve become such good friends.

Harry knows his hair looks more like a rat’s nest than usual, but he shrugs. “It’s unnatural.”

“As unnatural as your Sleekeazy-defying cowlicks?” Draco asks, delicately shutting the box and casting a locking spell on it. He turns to Harry and raises an eyebrow at his messy mop. “Your hair is absurd.”

“You love my hair,” Harry corrects him.

“As if,” Draco scoffs, turning and guiding them away from the crime scene. He doesn’t seem to be walking with any real goal in mind, he’s just putting distance between them and the bloody mess painting the sidewalk. 

“Do I need to remind you of the many, many times you’ve waxed poetic about how much you love my hair? How soft it is? Or how you can’t stop touching it when you’re drunk?” Harry asks, unable to fully smother the smirk sliding onto his face.

Draco’s pale cheeks flush a light shade of pink, but he scoffs and waves a dismissive hand. “Surely you know better by now than to trust my judgement when I’m drunk—I become enamoured with silly things.”

Like Harry.

It’s a bit of a punch to the gut, except Harry already knows this. Draco is only ever affectionate toward Harry while he’s plastered but as soon as he sobers up he regrets it and apologises the first chance he gets.

Harry pushes away these thoughts in lieu of teasing Draco, something he can always count on to be consistent between them.

“Like cock cages?” he asks.

Draco’s smirk drops, and he glances around surreptitiously, his face gone from pink to flaming red in a matter of seconds. He leans into Harry’s space and whispers furiously, “I thought we agreed to _never_ speak of that incident again!”

The memory of when they had drunkenly stumbled into a BDSM sex shop is one Harry will cherish for the rest of his life.

Harry laughs long and loud, and Draco shoves him. Harry stumbles but manages to keep his feet. Draco pouts. 

“I’m thirsty. Buy me one of those Muggle fizzy drinks,” Draco demands of him, gesturing to a nearby convenience store. 

~

With a loud clang, Harry slams the door to the holding cell shut, the action feeling physically satisfying as well as symbolic of finally—hopefully—closing the case that’s had Ron and Harry chasing their tails for three months. 

The grimy wizard is clutching at his arm in the cold cell, shouting at them about abuse of power and excessive force, threatening all sorts of ramifications if they don’t send him a healer immediately. 

Harry turns his back on him and joins Ron, leaving the detention block behind and feeling both an overwhelming sense of relief and utter exhaustion washing over him. 

“That’s the end of it, right?” Harry feels the need to ask. Every time they thought they had this case figured out, a new victim would appear and have them starting all over again. 

“Yes,” Ron says firmly, brow furrowed and mouth set in a hard line. 

Harry knows Ron doesn’t know the answer any more than he does, but he accepts it anyway—he needs to. 

They caught the wizard who had been creating the cursed necklaces today. They believe they’ve already picked up all his accomplices and tracked down any of the poor souls who bought the fake protection pendants from them. This should be the end of it.

Harry has seen a lot of dark, gruesome things since he joined the Aurors about a decade ago, but he’ll feel especially glad to mark this case as officially closed and compartmentalise it in the top five most horrific deaths he’s ever witnessed and hopes to never see or think of again.

They both seem to be on the same wavelength, moving to get outside the Ministry without needing to say anything. They breathe easier once they’re outside taking in fresh air. 

Ron pull his mobile out of his pocket and checks it just as Hermione trained him to.

“You going to Mungo’s for that?” he asks idly as he looks through his new messages. 

Harry touches the cut on the side of his head, feeling it out delicately. He’d been thrown in the duel and hit his head on the corner of a table.

“No, it’s fine,” Harry says and with a dismissive shake of his head. 

Ron looks up from his phone to look him over with a critical eye. “Bled a lot.”

“Just ‘cause it’s my head. It’s not deep,” Harry assures him. He can feel where the blood collected in his hair, ran behind his ear and down his neck. It’s started to dry and feels irritating where his collar rubs against it.

Ron regards him, then seems to accept this answer and turns back to his phone, slowly typing out a text on it. 

“You going to Frank’s?” Ron asks after flipping his phone closed.

“Probably not. Bit late, isn’t it? I doubt they’ll be there much longer.”

“Hermione says they’re still going strong, hoping we’ll join.” At Harry’s raised eyebrow Ron continues, “Harpies won their game yesterday. We’re supposed to be celebrating with Ginny, remember?”

“Bollocks. I forgot,” Harry mutters, pushing up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub at his eyes.

“I’m going to head over. Ginny’d probably kill me if I didn’t show,” Ron says and grimaces.

“I guess I should too,” Harry says with a small frown. “Should change and wash up first. I’ll meet you there.”

Ron nods and turns away, peeling off his robes as he heads down the street toward the pub.

Harry stops by his house, quickly changing and washing the blood off his hair and neck before heading out. 

First thing he wants to do is get a drink, but the first thing he knows he needs to do is congratulate Ginny and apologise for being so late. 

She punches him in the arm, hard, then pulls him into a hug and waves away his apologies. By this point she and most everyone else are already well into their cups. 

As soon as Ginny’s done with him, Harry’s eyes automatically scan the area for Draco and spot him over by the dartboard with his back to Harry. He has his arm slung over Luna’s shoulders, and she’s leaning into him with an arm around his waist as they watch Dean and Seamus playing darts. 

After a particularly bad toss by Seamus, Draco throws his hands up and gestures angrily. Most likely they’ve got bets running on the game. 

Harry heads to the bar to order a round of shots and a whiskey. Once they’re placed in front of him, Harry downs two of the tequila shots one right after the other so he can try to get caught up with everyone else. He mentally shakes off his day, stows it away with all the other things he doesn’t want to think about, and tries to get into a festive mood. 

“Shots!” Harry shouts when he approaches the pool tables most of their friends are crowded around.

He holds the tray out in offering, which is accepted by Ginny, Pansy, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Blaise, and Angelina. 

Harry raises his shot and calls, “To kicking the shite out of Puddlemere!”

They all answer with whoops and disjointed echoes of the cheer and down their shots. 

Harry exhales and shakes his head sharply, the tequila burning its way down his throat to rest hotly in his stomach. 

“Where’s George?” Harry asks Angelina, who is standing to his right sucking on a lime wedge. 

She rolls her eyes and nods her head over Harry’s shoulder. He turns and sweeps his gaze in that direction and his eyes catch on a head of bright red hair lying on a table. Both George and Lee appear to be passed out on it.

“About an hour ago he and Lee got in a pissing contest, tried to drink each other under the table, and well,” she says and shrugs. 

Harry laughs and shakes his head, picking up his whiskey and taking a sip. As he drinks, he looks around at his friends. 

Draco, Luna, Dean and Seamus seem to be lost in their own pissing contest over the dartboard. 

Ginny and Pansy are playing a game of pool, but the more Harry watches them more he thinks he shouldn’t get in between that. Something about their body language and the way they’re intently watching each other gives him the feeling that they’re not so much taunting as they are flirting. 

Hermione and Blaise are at the other pool table in their own game. Harry feels that’s a safer space to butt in on, so he heads over to them. “I play winner next round.”

Time slips by as one game turns into best out of three, which turns into best out of five, and at the end of it Harry has only managed to win one game and Hermione looks entirely too smug about it. He would have thought he’d have an edge, being more sober than her, but apparently not. 

“It’s simple, really,” Hermione says, trying to use the familiar know-it-all tone, but her words come out a bit too slow and slurred. “Simply a matter of calcutating angles for traj—trajrect—trajectory and—” she cuts off with a burp, looking surprised by it. “Oh, excuse me.”

Ron smiles fondly at her and slips a hand around her waist. “Think maybe we’ll take that as our cue. You can go home and rest easy knowing you’re the reigning pool champion.” 

“That’s right, I won!” she exclaims and giggles, throwing her arms around Ron’s neck and planting a messy kiss on his lips. 

Harry laughs and sweeps down in a bow. “All hail,” he jokes which elicits another giggle. “Best get her home. I’ll see you guys Sunday.”

“Right, take care,” Ron says leads Hermione out of the pub.

“All hail the reigning pool queen!” she shouts to the other patrons as she passes them by.

A glance at the clock tells him that last order was half an hour ago, and a glance around the pub tells him that the party is pretty much over. Harry knows Dean, Seamus, Luna, and Neville have already begged off. It looks like Angelina took George and Lee home at some point. He doesn’t see Draco or Blaise, so they probably left while Harry was too focused on his game to notice. 

Ginny and Pansy seem more interested in each other than their pool game. Pansy is sitting on the edge of the pool table, her legs crossed and her already very short skirt riding higher up her thighs from her position. Ginny has a hand on her knee, leaning into her space while propping herself up on her pool cue. Harry recognises the coquettish smile on her face.

Harry throws back the last of his whiskey, intending to close his tab and head home.

“What d’you want to bet they’re fucking?”

Harry almost spits out his drink. He covers his mouth to keep it from coming back out, but a bit of it still dribbles out his nose. It takes a couple tries to swallow properly, and Harry ends up coughing from the burning in his throat. He quickly wipes at his nose and rubs at it because it’s also burning from the whiskey. 

Draco grins at Harry’s startled reaction, and drapes an arm over his shoulder, leaning heavily against his side.

Harry tries to swallow a couple more times and clears his throat.

“Ten galleons says they are,” Draco says, flashing a sharp, dangerous smile and taking a sip from what looks to be a mojito. 

Harry clears his throat again and takes a big breath. “Erm, yeah, I’m not taking that bet,” he says, his voice rough. “Pretty sure I’d lose ten galleons.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Draco asks, his gaze shifting away from Harry to fix a speculative look on Ginny and Pansy. 

“I guess.” Harry pauses to clear his throat again. “Mostly I’ve just learned to never bet against you.”

Draco bursts into a loud peal of laughter, seeming to find the comment especially funny in his current state. He laughs, and he laughs, and he stops and levels a heated look at Harry.

“Seems like they were at each other’s throats not even a year ago,” Draco says, sliding a sly smile toward Harry and leaning more of his weight against him. “Interesting, isn’t it? How opposites can attract like that.” 

Harry should find it funny, what with the way Draco and Seamus have a dance off every time they hear _Opposites Attract_ , but the way Draco says it, it’s not. 

Draco’s tone is low, and he’s giving Harry these sultry eyes that are making his guts squirm and his chest tighten. Is Draco flirting with him? It feels like Draco is flirting with him. Harry licks his lips and watches as grey eyes flick down to track the movement avidly. 

Draco’s hand finds its way to the back of Harry’s neck and slides into his hair there. Now the weight of Draco against him feels much different than it usually does. It feels heavy with intention. It feels like more than the familiar, drunken need to be tactile, and it’s making Harry’s heart thump erratically in his chest.

Harry swallows hard. Draco’s eyes follow the movement of his throat and travel back up Harry’s face to catch and hold his gaze. 

“Sounds familiar, does it not?” Draco’s words are slow, like he has to make an effort to pronounce everything correctly. “Doesn’t seem fair, them having all the fun.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, helplessly caught in the web Draco’s been weaving around him for months and just drunk enough to put his desire before reason. 

Harry shifts to face Draco directly, leaning back on the pool table as Draco slots himself between Harry’s legs. When he moves to put his arms around Harry, Harry has to quickly grab at Draco’s wrist and pull the mojito from his hands before he can spill it down Harry’s back. As soon as the drink is set down on the pool table, Draco’s arms wraps around Harry’s neck. 

Draco’s cheeks are flushed red, his lips parted as he looks at Harry through his lashes. From the neck down there’s not an inch of room between them, Draco leaning heavily into Harry and pressing their bodies flush together. 

They’re so close that they could be kissing—should be kissing. Harry can feel Draco’s chest expanding against his own and he’s not sure how Draco is doing it because Harry’s sure he’s not breathing—he’s forgotten how. 

Draco bumps his nose against Harry’s and giggles about it, and Harry can’t help smiling. Draco’s eyes search Harry’s, then they flit down to stare at Harry’s lips. 

Even though he’s mostly expecting it at this point, it still takes Harry by surprise when Draco leans forward and mashes their lips together. The movement is quick and so sudden their lips don’t line up right. Their teeth clack and Draco’s nose knocks against Harry’s, but Merlin. Draco’s kissing him. 

Harry’s hands clench on Draco’s hips and move to wrap around his back and hold him tighter. He opens to Draco almost immediately, and that’s Draco’s tongue. In Harry’s mouth. Rubbing against Harry’s tongue. His mouth taste like mint.

If he were sober he would probably be embarrassed by how he moans into the kiss, but in his current state he can’t find it in him to care. Nothing else matters as long as Draco keeps touching him like this. It’s what Harry’s wanted for months and been too scared to express. 

The kiss is sloppy. They’re not pushing and pulling when they should be, not opening or closing their mouths in sync with each other, but Harry couldn’t care less. His skin is flushed, feeling warm and tingly from the alcohol and the way Draco’s hungrily attacking his mouth, and he can’t stop moving his hands, wanting to touch every inch of Draco that he can.

When Draco pulls back, Harry finds himself leaning forward, trying to chase after him, but not making it. He stops and blinks at Draco. 

“Mm,” Draco moans and closes his eyes, licking his lips as if he just tasted something sweet and is trying to memorise the experience. 

Slowly Draco’s eyes reopen, though they stay half-lidded. He gives Harry a slow, wide smile. 

Draco giggles and puts a hand over his mouth to try and stifle it. His eyes close and the corners of them crinkle in the way Harry normally loves to see. 

“I just kissed Harry Potter,” Draco titters in disbelief.

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but he’s not sure what to say. His brow furrows when Draco leans forward and tucks his head into Harry’s neck. 

“You taste like whiskey,” he murmurs against his skin and giggles some more. His words are slurred and too slow. He leans more of his weight against Harry, who has to clutch at his waist with one hand and plant the other on the pool table to keep them standing. 

Fuck. Harry’s blood runs cold when he realises how drunk Draco is. He’s too drunk to know what he’s doing—too drunk to give consent. It’s as effective in deflating his interest as an ice bath would be.

Draco nuzzles Harry’s neck and hums faintly in the way he always does when he’s drunk and tired and about to fall asleep on Harry. 

“Draco,” Harry says, shaking him lightly. 

“Hmm?” Draco hums into his skin.

“Draco, I think it’s time to get you home.”

“Okay,” he slurs sleepily. 

It’s a real testament to how drunk Draco must be that he’s agreeing with Harry instead of putting up a fight like he normally would.

Harry curses internally. He shifts Draco so that he gets a hold of Draco’s waist and is gripping one of Draco’s arms over his shoulders to support him. 

Slowly, Harry walks them outside. They make tortuously slow progress with the way Draco can barely pick his feet up. Harry doesn’t see Ginny or Pansy anywhere, and he hopes they weren’t present to witness the absolute, monstrous fuck-up that was them swapping spit.

Once they’re outside at the curb, Harry tries to balance Draco well enough so that he can get at his wand, but Draco seems energised by the fresh air and has other ideas.

Draco grabs at the waistband of Harry’s trousers, tugging on them as if to make a point as he says, “D’you know that your arse looks bloody fantastic in these—these Muggle thingies?”

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, firmly grabbing Draco’s wrist and peeling the hand away from his jeans. 

“D’you do it on purpose?” Draco asks, shifting his weight heavily onto Harry so that he stumbles and has to grab onto him and try to plant himself more firmly against Draco’s swaying. Harry is not exactly sober either, so trying to keep them both standing is taking a massive amount of effort.

“Draco, you’re blotto, let’s just focus on getting you home, okay?” Harry says, looking up to catch Draco’s eyes. 

As drunk as he is, Draco’s eyes have that dangerous twinkle in them, shining with intellect and mischief, and this is why it’s sometimes so hard to gauge his level of intoxication. One minute Draco is clear-headed enough to be making bets on his friend’s relationships and the next he’s blackout on Harry’s shoulder.

“You goin’ to take me home, Harry?” Draco seems to be trying for a seductive tone, but the slurring ruins it. 

“Yeah, and put you to bed,” Harry answers staunchly, carefully removing his hand which was planted on Draco’s chest to steady him. He keeps his hand up, waiting for Draco to sway again, and slowly reaches for his wand. 

Draco stays upright long enough for Harry to get his wand and call the Knight Bus with it. Getting Draco up the three steps into the bus is a whole other matter, but eventually they make it on and Harry gets Draco situated in one of the squishy armchairs. 

“Draco?” Harry tries to get his attention.

“Hmmm?” Draco hums, not opening his eyes.

“Draco?” Harry gently smacks his cheek. 

“Mm, what?” Draco’s tone is petulant, his eyes peeking open just enough to attempt a glare in Harry’s direction. He doesn’t try to move his face or swat Harry’s hand away.

“Fuck,” Harry swears again. Draco’s eyes are already closed, head dropped to the side against the chair. There’s no way Draco will make it into his house without Harry.

He walks back to the front of the bus and drops enough coins in the farebox for both of them. “Sorry, Ernie. Take us to Draco’s place, you know the way.” The old wizard gives a nod.

Harry just manages to make it into his own chair before the bus lurches forward and sends them shooting off toward Wiltshire. It puts Harry’s stomach up in his throat, and he has to focus on not vomiting. He doesn’t know how Draco can ride the Knight Bus home every Friday, drunk off his arse, and manage not to empty the entire content of his stomach everywhere. 

Thankfully the ride is over in a matter of minutes, and Harry eagerly gets them off the bus and begins the slow ascent up the hill to Draco’s house. Draco had sold the Manor ages ago but had bought another place in Wiltshire because he couldn’t give up the country. While still posh and absurdly expensive, his new place is half the size of Malfoy Manor. 

Binky, Draco’s ancient house-elf, greets them at the door with a judgemental stare. She does not seem at all impressed with the way Draco’s leaning heavily against Harry, barely conscious. 

“Hullo Binky,” Harry greets kindly and gets a glare for it. 

Binky shuffles away without a word. She’s never before uttered so much as a greeting to Harry, and it always makes him wonder if he’s offended her in some way.

“Alright then,” Harry mutters, shifting Draco’s weight over his shoulders and dragging him forward. 

Somehow Draco is still capable of moving his feet enough that he’s not completely dead weight. Halfway up the steps he starts humming _Opposites Attract_ in Harry’s ear and giggles when Harry grumbles at him for it.

When they make it to Draco’s bedroom, Harry drops Draco onto his bed, who proceeds to moan and rub his face and hands against his silk bedding. 

“Feels good,” Draco murmurs, trying to burrow deeper into his dark blue duvet. 

Harry bites his lip to stop from laughing, and he leaves Draco to go to the kitchen and get water. He quickly chugs a glass of it himself and delivers a glass to Draco. 

“Draco,” Harry says, sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. 

Draco just moans in response and keeps rubbing his hands against the cool silk. 

“Draco, can you sit up for me? I want you to drink some water before you pass out.”

Draco hums what sounds like agreement, but he makes no move to sit up.

Harry sets the water down on his bedside drawer and grabs under Draco’s arms, pulling him into a seated position with minimal resistance. Draco feels almost boneless, and as soon as he sees Harry next to him he collapses against him and buries his face in Harry’s neck.

Harry manages to get Draco to drink some of his water, helps him take off his coat, shoes and socks, and spends five minutes fighting to get Draco under the covers. By the end of it he’s flushed and panting. Draco may be lean, but he’s not light. 

Draco curls into himself, and Harry pauses to regard him. He hasn’t had a chance yet to stop and think about Draco kissing him or flirting with him. Now though, it makes him wonder if maybe he does have a chance. More likely he thinks this is just an especially drunk Draco getting overly friendly and making a mistake which he’ll surely apologise for come Monday. 

Harry can already hear it now, Draco calling him ‘Auror Potter’ instead of Harry, and staying an arms-length away even as he shares his lunch with him.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Harry turns away to leave, but Draco catches his wrist and stops him.

“Harry,” he murmurs, voice quiet and a bit pathetic sounding. Harry wonders if maybe he should have got him a bowl too, in case his stomach is about to turn on him. “Don’t go. Please?”

Draco peers up at him, his eyes soft and pleading, and his hand tugs Harry weakly toward the bed.

“I—”

“Please,” he repeats, fingers squeezing Harry’s wrist. 

Harry chews his lip and slowly nods. “Okay. I’ll stay. Just for a bit.”

Draco smiles up at him, lets go of his wrist and pats the bed in invitation. 

Harry furrows his brow, wondering if it’s a good idea to join him on the bed. He doesn’t seem like he’s trying to get in Harry’s pants anymore—he’s crashing, with his eyes already closed and breathing evening out. 

Harry first flicks off the lights before he moves around to the other side of the bed and slips out of his coat, toes his shoes off and carefully climbs on. He doesn’t get under the covers, and the bed is huge, so Harry leaves room for Jesus between them. 

He looks over at Draco, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, and decides that he will stay just long enough for Draco to fall asleep, then he will leave. Harry turns his head and stares up at the ceiling, bringing a hand up to delicately touch his lips. 

It wasn’t the best kiss Harry’s ever had, sloppy from too much alcohol, but it was Draco. Draco kissed him. Now that it’s allowed to, the thought swirls around and around in Harry’s head. 

They kissed. Harry kissed Draco. Draco kissed Harry. A part of Harry wants to enjoy it, but he just can’t.

They had their first kiss and it was while Draco was sloshed. He may not even remember it come tomorrow.

It’s fine, Harry thinks desperately and shuts his eyes tight. Everyone makes mistakes. Draco didn’t know what he was doing, and Harry—Harry didn’t realise how inebriated Draco was. He wouldn’t have responded otherwise. He would have stopped it. Surely Draco will understand.

It didn’t mean anything that Draco kissed him. It’s not going to change anything. It doesn’t have to change anything. They’ll still be friends, Draco will still be a part of Harry’s life, Harry’s sure of it. It was just a kiss, after all.

~

As Harry slowly rises into consciousness, the first thing he notices is the distant sound of birds singing. His eyes feel heavy as he tries to open them and quickly shuts them against the stream of sunlight hitting him square in the face. 

With a groan, Harry turns over and tries again to open his eyes. He has to blink a few times before they adjust to the light, but when they do, Harry sees Draco sprawled on the bed next to him and the events of last night come flooding back. 

“Oh, fuck,” Harry swears, pushing up on an elbow and looking around Draco’s bedroom. He’s still at Draco’s, and at some point in the night he managed to get under the covers. He didn’t mean to fall asleep in Draco’s bed, he had meant to go home. 

Draco hums a small noise, like he’s also waking up. Then, to Harry’s horror, Draco rolls over and slowly opens his eyes. It’s like watching a train wreck. Harry is frozen in place, completely incapable of stopping this from happening. 

Whenever Draco wakes up after falling asleep on Harry’s shoulder, he always has this soft, happy expression like he couldn’t be more pleased waking up on Harry, and Harry always loves seeing it there.

Now though, now is different. Draco isn’t just waking up from a drunken cat nap. Draco is waking up after snogging Harry and inviting him to stay the night. Who knows what he remembers of last night or what he’ll think of finding Harry in bed with him.

But where Harry is expecting horror and rejection he doesn’t get it, and instead Draco groans and wiggles closer to Harry. Harry watches this all with wide eyes, barely breathing as Draco tilts his head up and pecks Harry on the lips. 

A long arm latches around his waist, and Draco drops his head onto Harry’s chest and groans again. 

Harry blinks, exhales a shaky breath, and lets his elbow slip out from under him and falls onto his back. Draco follows the movement, curling further into Harry’s side and pressing cold toes to his feet, edging them up under the hem of Harry’s jeans.

“Too early,” Draco mutters roughly.

Harry’s brain is whirling. This has to be a dream, right? Things like this only happen in Harry’s dreams. 

Or Draco is still drunk. 

Harry feels for his wand and finds it still in his hip holster, because he didn’t take it out last night since he wasn’t planning on falling asleep. He casts a quick, nonverbal Tempus. 

6:12.

Draco only went to bed about five hours ago. And he was completely sloshed. It’s possible he’s still a bit drunk. Harry simply cannot fathom the possibility that this is something Draco would do otherwise. 

He keeps still, listening to Draco’s breathing and trying to figure out what to do. 

Harry should leave. He should get out of this bed while he can and never look back. But he can’t. If he leaves now this is will become another thing for Draco to brush off with a flippant apology. Harry has to stay so that they can talk about this. 

Draco seems to have fallen back asleep already, but Harry is incapable of sleep now. Draco kissed him. Again. Like it was nothing. Like it’s completely normal for him to wake up next to Harry and kiss him and curl up against him.

A part of Harry wants to enjoy this, but he can’t help wondering—is this creepy? Is Draco aware of the situation? They’ve cuddled plenty of times, and Draco falls asleep on him almost every Friday night, but that’s when he’s drunk at the pub and not in the intimate and private space of his own bed.

Harry knows that sleeping and cuddling isn’t inherently sexual. Hell, even kissing doesn’t have to be. And they’re both still fully clothed. Still, it doesn’t sit right with him, so he slowly, carefully extracts himself from those long limbs and steps out of bed without waking Draco.

Harry slips his trainers back on and heads first to the bathroom, desperately needing to relieve himself. After that, he heads down to the kitchen. His mouth is bone-dry and though his hangover isn’t too bad, his stomach still aches from too much alcohol and there is a dull throbbing behind his eyes. 

It’s no surprise that Harry finds Binky in the kitchen or that she gives him the stink-eye. He knows house-elves often make a conscious effort to never being seen or heard, and he gets the feeling that she waited for him here just so he could feel the weight of her judgement. 

“ ‘Morning Binky,” Harry chooses to greet her pleasantly and gets a glass of water, which he downs quickly and refills. 

He searches Draco’s potion cabinet, pulls out a Hangover Tonic, and fills another glass of water to take to Draco. 

Draco is still sound asleep, and Harry sets the water and potion on his bedside drawer for when he wakes up and will surely be in desperate need of them. 

Draco’s pale hair is fanned out over the pillow Harry slept on, some of it falling in his face. Harry brushes it behind his ear and pulls the duvet up around his shoulders.

While completely ignoring Binky’s judgemental glares, Harry makes himself eggs, toast and a strong cup of tea. He sits on the settee in the tea room and eats his breakfast there, earning him darker looks as he gets crumbs on the nice upholstery.

It’s a long time before Draco appears, at least two hours go by as Harry waits. At first he tries to check his mobile, but the magic in the house renders it inoperable. He’d like to go home to shower and change, but he wants to be here for when Draco gets up so he opts for a few cleaning charms and settles in with a borrowed book.

When Draco descends the stairs, he looks a bit rough around the edges from last night, but considering that he’s not walking around like a zombie Harry assumes he saw the Hangover Tonic and drank it. Still, his hair is mussed, he’s unshaven and he has dark circles under his eyes.

Draco stops abruptly when he sees Harry sitting in his tea room, lips parting as he stares at him in stunned silence. 

“You’re still here,” Draco manages to say.

Harry clears his throat and sets his book down. “Yeah.”

A small, tentative smile pulls at the corners of Draco’s mouth, and Harry cautiously returns it. 

“Binky,” Draco turns away to address his house-elf, who appeared again as soon as Draco stepped down onto the main floor. “Bring me toast. And tea.”

The geriatric house-elf bows as deep as her creaky joints will allow and disappears with a loud crack. 

Draco pads into the tea room on bare feet and sits across from Harry in one of the armchairs. He’s changed from yesterday’s clothes into a set of soft looking black pyjamas. 

Harry watches all of this carefully, trying to read what he can in Draco’s face. Mostly he seems nervous as he licks his lips, opens and closes his mouth, and taps his fingers on the arm of his chair. 

Harry tries to quell the nervous sensation of butterflies in his stomach, gathering his courage and saying, “Do you remember much of last night?”

Draco immediately stops chewing his lip and snorts. “Of course I remember last night. I wasn’t _that_ drunk.”

“You could barely stand on your own,” Harry points out patiently. “Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t throw up.”

Draco rolls his eyes and clarifies, “Okay, but I wasn’t _blackout_. And Malfoys never chunder.”

Harry’s sceptical of that. He wouldn’t be surprised if Draco had snuck off to the bathrooms to throw up sometime earlier that night. It would explain why he wasn’t sicker when Harry took him home.

A plate of toast and a cup of tea pop into existence and Draco immediately snatches them up, hungrily biting into a slice of toast and washing it down with tea.

“So you remember…” Draco’s gaze snaps up when Harry pauses, those grey eyes much sharper and harder to read in the light of day. “You remember that we kissed.”

Draco huffs and looks down again, nodding as he chews his food. 

Harry rubs the back of his neck anxiously. He’s not sure how he expected this conversation to go, but he expected to at least get some input from Draco, who never hesitates to let Harry know exactly what he thinks about anything and everything. 

“We were drunk,” Harry states plainly. “Well, I mean, you were _really_ pissed. More than me. And I’m sorry, because I didn’t realise at the time how far gone you were.” 

Draco furrows his brow and gives Harry a calculating look, chewing his food and still not offering any input. 

With a sigh, Harry pushes up his glasses to rub at his face. “And I don’t know if you remember this, but you kissed me this morning too.”

Draco drops his half-eaten slice of toast back onto his plate, brushes his hands off and straightens his posture. He clears his throat and fixes an impassive look on Harry. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t!” Harry cuts him off harshly and glances away guiltily and rubs at his mouth when Draco’s expression switches to one of shock. “Sorry. Just. Please don’t apologise. It’s okay. I just—I want to make sure you know. What we did. So we can talk about it,” he says haltingly.

Harry chances a glance at Draco and finds him looking off to the side, his hands clasped tightly in his lap and a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“I—” Draco starts and cuts off. A myriad of emotions cross his face, until they find their way back to impassivity. “You stayed, and I thought—well, it doesn’t matter. You’re right. We were drunk. I was drunk. It happened. I don’t know why we have to make a big deal of it.”

Harry furrows his brow. “You thought what?”

“Nothing, forget it.” Draco waves his hand flippantly.

“No, I don’t want to forget it!” Harry argues fiercely and throws his hands out. “I want to know what you were thinking when you kissed me because I’ve spent the last year wanting to kiss you. Now we have, and I can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.”

Draco’s lips part in surprise, and he stares at Harry in shock. Harry’s stomach drops. He didn’t mean to confess that in a frustrated outburst.

“I…” Draco blinks and speaks again slowly, “I was thinking that I kissed you. That I asked you to stay and you stayed. That maybe you stayed because you want me as much as I want you.”

Harry sits in stunned silence. He’s not sure if he heard Draco correctly. 

Is this real? Harry keeps waiting for another apology—a, ‘Sorry for my behaviour.’ He’s waiting for their cycle to complete. Except this time that little flame Harry started nursing back to life last night has turned into a raging bonfire and he’s not sure it can be extinguished this time. It might just burn him alive if it’s not real.

But no, they really did kiss. Draco really did just admit to wanting to be with Harry. He can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face.

“So you don’t regret last night?” Harry has to ask.

Draco rolls his eyes. “No, you twit. I’ve been flirting with you for _months_ hoping you would make a move.”

Harry tilts his head in question. “But you were always drunk.”

“A little liquid courage, to be sure,” Draco says, picking up his teacup and taking a sip.

“But you’re like that with everyone when you’re drunk.” 

Draco looks over his tea at Harry and raises an eyebrow.

“You are,” Harry insists. “You’re a handsy drunk. You get all, like, tactile—with everyone.”

“Not like that.” Draco is giving Harry an unimpressed look, taking another sip of his tea.

Harry blushes. He thinks about the last several months of Draco playing with his hair, falling asleep on him, nuzzling his neck. 

God, he feels like an idiot. It’s not that Harry didn’t notice, it’s that he was so convinced Draco couldn’t be interested in him that he completely ignored all the signs for it. 

No, actually, they’re both idiots, Harry decides. “I was going to ask you out,” Harry says, raising his eyebrows back at Draco, “multiple times. But every Monday you’d immediately apologise before I could get a word in edgewise, and it seemed like you weren’t actually interested—like it was unintentional, getting drunk and flirting with me, like you regretted it. And you never flirted with me while sober, and Draco. I can’t—I’m not going to sleep with you when you’re drunk. You can’t—it wouldn’t be consensual.”

Draco leans an elbow on his knee and plants his face in his palm. “Merlin,” he groans into it, holding the position a moment before looking back up at Harry. “I apologised because it seemed like _you_ weren’t interested.” 

“Yeah, I wasn't interested because you were always drunk,” Harry says incredulously. 

Draco huffs. “I wasn’t drunk when I brought you lunch every day for last three months. I was never drunk at any of our Tuesday night Seeker games. I wasn’t drunk when I took you to the zoo for your birthday, although maybe I should have been for that one.”

Harry blinks, and then he has to hide his own face in his hands as well. He starts laughing, and it builds up slowly until he flops against the back of the settee and is laughing so hard he’s clutching his stomach.

At first Draco smiles, but the laughter is contagious and it really is such a ridiculous situation. It’s one that only they would get themselves in, and Draco can’t help laughing too. He has to put his tea cup down or risk spilling it as his body shakes with mirth.

Eventually the laughter dies down, and Harry exhales a deep breath and stares across the coffee table at Draco, who’s still fighting the tail end of laughter, chuckling a couple more times and wiping at the corner of his eye. 

“We’re idiots,” Harry says with a grin.

Draco shakes his head, but clearly agrees with him. He gets up from his chair and moves to stand in front of Harry. His eyes seem to be searching Harry's for permission, so Harry nods and reaches for him. Draco puts a hand on Harry's chest, using it to steady himself as he moves to straddle Harry. Harry holds Draco’s waist to help him balance. 

Once he’s settled, Draco cups Harry’s face in his hands and they stare at each other, Draco’s gaze jumping between Harry’s eyes. Slowly, slowly Draco leans down and presses his lips to Harry’s, eyes closed. 

This time the action is completely intentional. Their lips line up the way they should, and Draco gets the angle right so they don’t bump noses. 

Draco keeps kissing him like that, chaste and thoughtful, slow lingering presses that make Harry feel light and fluttery. 

After a while, Harry parts his lips in invitation and Draco follows suit. Their tongues meet tentatively, then slide together in a mutual hunt for pleasure. 

They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss, getting lost in their own blissful exploration of each other. 

His fingers find their way underneath the hem of Draco’s pyjama shirt and he runs the tips of them up the smooth, warm planes of Draco’s back. Draco hums his approval and slides a hand into Harry’s hair, just the way Harry has come to love. 

They have to part, eventually, and when they do, Draco pulls back so they can look at each other for a moment. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and droops forward, leaning the side of his head against Harry’s. 

Harry noses at Draco’s jaw, closing his eyes and breathing him in. The moment is intimate and quiet, but it’s heavy with the release of all the feelings they’ve been harbouring for so long and the assurance that it's mutual. 

Harry’s head is swimming and he can’t feel his toes, but he’s fairly sure this isn’t a dream and he feels disgustingly happy right now.

“You sure you’re not still drunk?” Harry teases lightly. 

He can’t see it, but Harry is sure that Draco rolls his eyes. “No, Potter. I assure you I am completely sober this time.”

Harry smiles and presses a kiss under Draco’s ear, running his fingertips across his back in random patterns.

Thankfully, it’s a Saturday and neither of them have anywhere to be. After a short trip home to shower and change, Harry returns to spend the entire day with Draco cuddling, teasing, and kissing. 

~

“Harry, this is what house-elves are _for_ ,” Draco whinges while Harry moves around the kitchen, preparing dinner for them later that night.

“No, it’s not the same, Draco. I am going to make you dinner. I am going to wine and dine the hell out of you, you have no idea,” Harry says firmly.

Draco looks unimpressed, but that’s only because he has yet to taste Harry’s cooking. He’ll understand soon enough. Harry loves to cook and he’s got damn good at it too, if he does say so himself. 

Most likely Draco is assuming that because he’d once happened upon Harry on a day when he’d brought in an abysmal lunch from Kreacher, that Harry is incapable of cooking. Truth is it was simply an issue of not having enough time to make his own lunch that day. 

“As long as you know that I’m already willing to get on my knees and suck you off right now without being wined and dined,” Draco drawls, examining his nails in feigned boredom. 

Harry’s hand slips and he almost slices a finger open. 

He looks up at Draco a bit wide-eyed, and Draco side-eyes him, a sly smirk slipping onto his face.

A mere moment later he’s jumping off his stool and crowding Harry back against the counter, dropping to his knees and popping the button on Harry’s jeans.

“Wanted to do this for so long,” Draco purrs. “I want you, Harry. Want to taste you, tease you until you’re begging for it. Want you to fuck my mouth. Want to feel you come down my throat.”

“Yes! Yes, fuck yes,” Harry readily agrees, eagerly nodding his assent and swallowing thickly.

Draco smile is wide and mischievous as he unzips Harry and pulls him out of his pants. He gazes at Harry’s cock, licking his lips. His hands smooth up Harry’s thighs and he leans far enough forward that Harry can feel warm breath against his cock. 

Draco’s flicks his eyes up to watch Harry as he takes him in hand, stroking once, twice, then leaning forward and lapping delicately at the head.

“Draco,” Harry whimpers urgently.

He gets a smirk in return, and Draco licks a stripe up his length, following the vein curving up the side.

“Please,” he’s not ashamed to beg, especially since Draco takes pity and sucks the tip into his mouth.

Harry moans and stifles the urge to thrust forward into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. His hands scramble for the edge of the counter, gripping at it to keep from grabbing Draco’s hair.

Maybe it’s because he’s kneeling on tile and can’t maintain that for long, or maybe it’s because he needs this just as urgently as Harry does, but whatever the reason Draco is done teasing. 

His mouth is creating a devastating suction around Harry as Draco’s head bobs up and down his cock, hand squeezing and stroking the rest of his length in counterpoint. 

Sparks skitter across Harry’s skin, originating in his groin and shooting out in waves through his nervous system. His muscles tense and his grip on the counter tightens as if it could ground him and discharge some of the electricity making his nipples pebble and the hairs on his arms raise.

Draco pauses and grabs at one of Harry’s hands, peeling it off the counter and bringing it to his head. He looks up at Harry and swallows him all the way down.

“Fuck!” Harry throws his head back and his fingers spread and press against Draco’s skull, holding him in place. “Draco, oh my god—nnnngghh—”

Harry can’t help swearing and babbling praises at Draco between moans. Draco swallows and his throat is like a vice around Harry’s cock, making stars explode behind Harry’s eyelids

Draco pulls back, breathes, and drops down again. His hands tug at Harry’s hips until Harry gets the memo and rocks forward into his mouth. Slow at first, feeling out a pace that Draco can handle. Turns out Draco can handle a lot.

Holding Draco’s head in place, Harry pistons his hips forward and watches his cock slip in and out between Draco’s glistening, red lips. Draco looks up at Harry through his lashes, eyes red-rimmed and watery from deep throating, but somehow still looking just as smug and cocksure as ever.

It’s over almost embarrassingly fast, but Harry hasn’t felt a mouth on his cock in months, and the last one wasn’t anything like this. Before he knows it he’s calling Draco’s name in warning, and Draco is pushing forward and sucking Harry down to the root so that when he comes, Harry comes directly down his throat. 

Draco looks entirely too pleased with himself, a smug smirk painted across his features as he licks his lips, tucks Harry back into his pants and zips him up.

Harry’s legs have turned to spaghetti and he slips down against the counter to the floor, muttering a, “Holy God,” as he goes.

Harry wants to reciprocate but by the time he looks up Draco is already working himself furiously. Having had most of his wits very effectively sucked out through his cock, the most Harry is able to do is get a hand behind Draco’s thigh and pull him closer. He opens his mouth and invites Draco to coat him with come.

~

“Oh my god, Harry. Oh my god.”

“Good?” Harry asks with a smirk. It’s his turn to feel smug.

“It’s perfect. I have never tasted chicken this good in my life,” Draco says, then stops and squints at Harry. “Why have _I_ been bringing _you_ lunch?”

Harry laughs and shrugs.

“You know what? I don’t care. As long as you make me more of this,” Draco says decidedly.

“Oh yeah? So the wining and dining is going well?”

“You have no idea,” Draco says, pausing to take another bite. His lips close around fork’s tines and his eyes shut, a deep moan makes its way up his throat as he pulls the fork out and chews. After swallowing, Draco looks across the table at Harry and continues, “This is positively sinful. If you keep cooking for me, I will worship your cock.”

Harry’s gaze turns heated as he imagines all the ways that might happen. “I’d love to.”

Dinner doesn’t last long after that. As soon as the plates are in the sink, Harry and Draco are all over each other.

They barely make it up the stairs and into the bedroom, pressing each other into every wall along the way and scarcely pausing in their kissing long enough to take a breath. A trail of clothes follows them all the way up to the bed, where Draco pushes Harry down onto the silk sheets and straddles him, both of them naked.

Draco nearly tears the drawer out of his bedside table in his haste to get the bottle of lube and slick his hand with it.

“Want you to fuck me,” Draco says while working Harry’s cock almost viciously, hungrily eyeing how the head of it glides through his hand and pushes out of the foreskin on every downstroke. “I fantasise about it all the time. At work, watching you march around the office.”

Harry swears and throws his head back at a particularly effective twist of Draco’s wrist. Draco is going to be the death of him. Harry grips at the sheets, unable to do much more than pant and curse and moan under his ministrations.

Draco grins like the cat that got the canary and continues, “You look so fit in your Auror robes. Want you to fuck me on my desk sometime.”

Admittedly, it’s something Harry has also fantasised his fair share about and he finds himself nodding quickly and agreeing, “Fuck yes.” 

“Tonight I want you to fuck me hard. I want to feel the ache from you pounding me open all week.”

“Yeah, God, that sounds—yeah,” Harry rasps, Draco’s hand never faltering in its relentless pace, determinedly wringing every ounce of pleasure out of him.

Precome is dribbling copiously out the head of his cock, and Harry knows he can’t take much more of this without coming early, which is the last thing either of them want. 

In one swift move, Harry flips Draco onto his back and pins him with his weight. Draco squeaks, and the shock fades into raw desire.

He plants his hands on either side of Draco’s head as Draco grabs at Harry’s waist and tugs him harder into the space between his legs. Draco rolls his hips up and ruts against him, their cocks brushing together.

They both moan and Harry drops onto his forearms so he can kiss Draco heatedly. They roll their hips together, frotting and seeking friction between their bodies.

“Can I hold you down?” Harry asks, feeling the need to clarify before they get started if Draco wants it rough.

Draco snorts. “If that wasn’t already clear, yes. I want you to fuck me cross-eyed.” 

“I think I’d rather fuck you speechless,” Harry returns with a small smirk. Draco seems completely on board with this idea, his eyes sparkling with challenge. 

Harry shifts his position between Draco’s legs, grabs the lube and coats his fingers generously. He rubs it around his fingers to warm it up and grabs Draco’s leg under his knee to push it back. He swipes a finger up and down across Draco’s entrance a few times, circles the pucker and puts some pressure against it but doesn’t push in yet.

“Today, Potter,” Draco snaps impatiently. 

Harry looks up at him and arches an eyebrow. “Don’t call me ‘Potter’ in bed.”

“Alright,” he says and smirks. “But are you sure? We could do a Hogwarts role play.” 

Harry laughs and Draco grins at him. “You mean role play as ourselves?”

Harry chooses that moment to push the tip of his finger into Draco, effectively cutting off whatever retort Draco was forming. Draco moans, digs his fingernails into Harry’s back and arches into his touch.

He’s only worked up to his second knuckle when Draco is already begging him, “More, more.” He has a hand on his cock, stroking it slowly as Harry stretches him.

Harry doesn’t give him another immediately, instead he continues working one finger slowly, pushing it in and out of him again and again as Draco shamelessly whines and pushes back onto it. 

The second finger elicits a deeper moan from Draco. Harry stretches him slowly, watching his fingers push in and out.

When Harry finds his prostate, Draco moans and arches into it. He bites his lip and rocks his hips to try and ride Harry’s fingers harder. Harry puts a firm hand on his abdomen, leaning just enough of his weight down on it to stop him. 

Draco whines in response, but he doesn’t fight against him. His hips still obediently, but of course his mouth doesn’t. “Harry,” he begs. “Harry please. I’m good, I’m good, just fuck me.” 

Harry pauses and looks at Draco. “You’ve only had two fingers.” 

“Please, Harry. I’m prepped enough. I like how it burns, want you to stretch me with your cock.”

“Jesus.” Harry leans back to fist his cock with his free hand, needing to feel the sensation. 

“Protection charm?” Draco asks.

Harry casts around for his wand, but realises he has no idea where it got to. “Fuck. Our wands are probably in the hall somewhere with our clothes.”

“Condom okay?” Draco asks. Harry nods and Draco gestures impatiently. “The drawer.”

Harry leans over and pulls a condom from the same drawer that housed the lube. His fingers are too slick and he struggles with it before Draco snatches it away from him and tears it open. 

Harry sits up and rocks his hips forward so Draco can put the condom on him, pinching the tip and rolling it down his length hastily.

“Now get in me. Nownownow,” Draco chants keenly, nails digging into Harry as he pulls ineffectively at his hips. 

Harry huffs out a laugh as he grabs the lube and rubs some over his erection. “That desperate for my cock?”

“Considering that I’ve been trying to get you to fuck me for months on end but you wouldn’t take a hint? Yes, yes I am desperate.”

“Maybe if your intentions were a little clearer, like flirting with me while sober and not apologising for it.”

Draco levels an unimpressed look at him. “How is this for clear? Put your fucking cock in me.”

Harry smirks and shifts forward. He pushes one of Draco’s legs wider with one hand, his cock held in the other to position himself at Draco’s entrance. He rubs against it, putting on some pressure but not pushing in yet. 

“Harry,” Draco keens, gripping at Harry’s shoulders and rocking his hips to try and press into him.

“Tell me if you need me to stop.” 

“I won’t need to,” Draco says dismissively.

“Tell me if you need to stop,” Harry repeats in a much firmer voice, one that brooks no argument.

Draco shivers and he looks up at Harry hungrily. “Yes, sir,” he says, tone submissive but his smirk and arched eyebrow are giving Harry full cheek. 

And God help him, Harry loves a bottom who’ll get smart with him. Regardless of feelings, he gets the sense that they are going to be compatible in bed. 

“And how do we ask for things we want?” Harry presses.

Draco grins, but manages a polite, “Please fuck me.”

Harry rewards him by pushing the tip of his cock through the tight ring of muscle. 

Draco makes a small noise somewhere between pain and pleasure when Harry first pushes in. Harry stops to check in with him, but Draco’s eyes are dark with pleasure and his hands and hips are working to encourage Harry deeper. Harry has a feeling they’re going to need a safeword in the future. 

Still, he needs a verbal confirmation. “You okay?”

“Yes!” Draco nods feverishly. “Yes, yes, Merlin! More, please.”

Harry grips the base of his cock as he guides himself in and out, pushing in and retreating, then pushing in a little further. Draco is so tight and, God, the noises he’s making are utterly pornographic. It’s a good job Draco blew him earlier, as Harry’s certain it’ll help to make this last longer.

When Harry is fully seated in Draco, he pauses to check in again. “Alright?”

“Fucking hell, yes. You feel so good, come here.” Draco tugs at Harry’s hair and Harry falls forward, down into a heated kiss.

Draco pulls on Harry’s hair, grips his face, scratches his neck, making needy noises into the wet, passionate kiss. Their hips rock together, making Harry move minutely inside Draco. 

After long minutes of kissing, Draco’s hands find their way to Harry’s hips, gripping them and trying to get Harry to thrust. “Come on,” he urges into Harry’s lips.

Harry grabs Draco’s wrists and pushes them down onto the bed above his head. Draco gives a startled gasp, then grins and tilts his head back. Harry attacks the neck offered to him, biting and sucking a mark into Draco’s pale skin. 

Once he’s satisfied with it, Harry pulls back some, shifting his knees a bit closer and drives into Draco. He keeps his pace slow to start with, building up to faster thrusts.

“Harder,” Draco urges.

Harry obliges him, pounding harder into Draco until it’s pushing him up the bed a little each time. He knows he’s got the right pace when Draco’s eyes close and his mouth hangs open in an ‘o’ shape. The room is filled with the wet sound of skin slapping against skin, Draco moaning and Harry panting.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice is tight, and Harry can feel his legs tightening around his waist. He knows Draco is getting close and he’s not far off either, so he stops abruptly and pulls out, releasing Draco’s wrists at the same time. 

Draco whines at the loss, looking up at Harry in question, his eyes glazed with pleasure. 

“Turn over,” Harry directs him, and Draco does so without any sarcastic remarks. He grabs the lube and slathers some more onto himself before scooting forward and repositioning. 

Harry holds his cock as he guides it back into Draco. Shifting positions has taken some of the edge off, and Harry fucks into Draco at a slower pace. He takes his time initially, gripping Draco’s hips and rocking back and forth. He smooths one hand around onto Draco’s cheek and grips on to it, pulling it aside to watch the slick slide of his cock move in and out. 

“Harry,” Draco whimpers and arches into his thrust, compelling him to thrust harder. Harry pulls out slowly and fucks in hard again and again, listening the slap of their bodies coming together and the choked out moans from Draco.

Draco’s arms nearly buckle on every powerful thrust, but he keeps his position and gives as good as he gets, pushing back against Harry and demanding more.

“You feel so good,” Harry praises him, “taking my cock so nice.” Draco moans Harry’s name in response and Harry rewards him by wrapping his arms around Draco’s chest and taking the weight off his arms. He pulls them up to kneeling, holds Draco flush against himself and fucks into him in short, fast thrusts. 

“Fuck! Yes, right there, right there,” Draco chants, not able to do much more than grip at Harry’s arms around him and take the pounding Harry is giving him. Draco’s cock is hard and flushed a deep red, and Harry watches it over Draco’s shoulder as it bobs against his abdomen, glistening with precome. 

He takes Draco in hand and jacks him in time with his thrusts, letting the pleasure build and build, then he drops Draco and pushes him down into the mattress with a hand between his shoulders. 

Draco gasps and falls under Harry’s touch, perfectly responsive and moving exactly how Harry wants him to, arse raised high for Harry as his face gets pushed down into the pillows. 

Harry grabs Draco’s hip, pulling and holding him in place. He leans his weight forward onto Draco, pinning him and fucking him with abandon. He works the angle until he finds what he’s looking for, wrenching a loud, high-pitched moan out of Draco.

Harry keeps nailing Draco’s prostate until he’s completely incoherent, long fingers twisted into the sheets and nothing but a string of high vowels coming from him.

Sweat beads on Harry’s forehead, and his muscles burn with the effort of maintaining such a brutal pace, but Draco feels incredible, squeezing hot and tight around him with every thrust. Harry both does and doesn’t want it to end.

Still, he knows he won’t last much longer, so he reaches around to tug sharply at Draco’s cock. It only takes three strokes before Draco is screaming his name into the pillow and painting the sheets with his come.

Draco’s arse clenches around Harry, and he thrusts once, twice more into that tight heat before following Draco over the edge. His pleasure peaks and crashes through him in waves. All he can do as he rides it out is push deeper into Draco, his body flexed tense and tight, his hips stuttering as he fills the condom with his own release.

Harry’s panting hard. He comes down from his climax slowly, feeling almost drugged from the intensity of it, and afterward he licks his lips and tries to shift some of his weight off Draco without falling over. He manages it, barely, holding Draco’s waist to help steady himself, and, gently as he can, he pulls out. 

Draco whimpers at the loss, and Harry runs his thumb tenderly around the red, puffy ring of his abused hole. He feels the urge to lean down and lick it better, but he knows Draco will possibly be too sensitive, and he isn’t sure if that’s something he’d want. 

His legs feel like noodles as he moves back from Draco, but he fights the urge to collapse so he can ease Draco’s legs down, getting him to stretch out on the bed, and turns him onto his side. 

He pulls off the condom, tying it and tossing it in the bin. Harry shifts to lie down next to him, and Draco blinks and smiles slowly. Harry puts a hand through his pale hair, cups his cheek and asks, “How do you feel?”

“Bloody fantastic.” Draco closes his eyes and leans into Harry’s touch. “God, I needed that so badly.”

“Yeah?” Harry chuckles and leans forward, placing a slow, gentle kiss on Draco’s mouth. 

Draco hums and murmurs against his lips, “I think you did too.” 

He pauses and nods. Draco is right, of course. He’s always good at reading Harry’s moods.

Harry trails kisses up along his jaw and cheek, ending on his temple. He runs his fingers through Draco’s hair for several quiet minutes, letting his breathing and his heart rate slow and even out. 

When he feels ready to move again, Harry sits up and moves around Draco so that he can pull him away from the wet spot. Other than an irritated grumble, Draco is like putty in his hands and puts up no resistance to being manhandled. 

Harry gets up and heads to Draco’s bathroom, cleaning himself and grabbing a washcloth and wetting it with warm water. He crawls back onto the bed over Draco and gently wipes his cock clean, swipes the residual come off his stomach and turns Draco’s hips so he can clean the lube off of him as well.

Draco cracks one eye open and watches Harry do all this with an amused expression on his face.

When he’s finished, Harry tosses the washcloth in Draco’s hamper and leaves the bedroom. He follows their trail of clothing to his jeans, checking his pockets and looking around some more. He chuckles when he discovers his wand holster hanging off a rubber tree on the landing. 

Before going back to Draco, Harry grabs two glasses of water from the kitchen. When he returns, he aims a cleaning charm at the mess Draco made on the sheets.

Draco makes an offended noise and says as snobbishly as he can in his drained state, “These sheets are _silk_.”

“Sorry. I’m sure they’ll survive.” Harry’s too tired to give much of a damn. 

Harry climbs back into the bed next to Draco and gets an arm around him, wrangling him up into a sitting position. He reaches over and grabs one of the glasses of water and brings it to Draco’s lips.

“Drink,” Harry directs him and gets a raised eyebrow in response.

“You just fucked my arse into another dimension and now you’re going to mother-hen me?” Draco asks a bit incredulously.

“Come on, babe. You should hydrate,” Harry encourages him softly, running the tip of his nose up Draco’s cheekbone and laying a kiss on his hairline. 

A shiver runs down Draco's spine and he hesitates, glancing at Harry speculatively before putting his lips to the glass and letting Harry tip the water into his open mouth. 

When he’s had enough, Harry sets the glass aside and gets Draco comfortably situated back in the bed again. Though initially sceptical, Harry can tell how pleased Draco is to have Harry taking care of him. It shows in how his eyes soften, how his lips curl subtly—like he’s trying to keep Harry from noticing the smile—and how much more readily he accepts Harry’s help fluffing his pillow and getting into a comfortable position.

For now, Harry chooses to dismiss what it might mean that Draco is surprised by Harry’s desire to take care of him after sex. There will be time later to discuss all that. All Harry wants right now is to fall asleep with Draco in his arms.

He pulls the duvet up over them and wraps himself around Draco, who nuzzles into his neck in that familiar way and sighs a warm breath against his skin. 

“I hope you realise that after that performance you’re never leaving my bed again,” Draco informs him loftily.

Harry chuckles. “Oh yeah?”

“Indeed. I simply won’t allow it. I have many important needs that you’ll be seeing to from here on.” Draco props his head up on Harry’s chest so he can make eye contact. 

“Is that so?” Harry humours him, knowing his expression is probably soppy and too fond but not caring one lick. “And what can I expect in return?”

An impish grin spreads over Draco’s face. “A lot more spilled drinks in your lap.” Harry bursts into laughter.

“Is that all?” he asks, tone high in artificial offense.

“Yep,” Draco says, popping the ‘p.’ “You should consider foregoing trousers altogether. Really, I think we would both benefit quite—”

He jabs a finger into Draco’s side, and the result is instantaneous. Draco yelps and jumps away from Harry like he’s just been zapped with a bolt of lightning. His body, which moments before had been as boneless as a Raggedy Andy doll, has come to life as he squirms and darts long, dangerous fingers forward to tickle Harry in return. 

Harry squawks and tries to block the attack, grabbing one of Draco’s hands and taking an opening to tease his fingers under Draco’s knee. The legs jerks forward and almost knees Harry in the groin, so Harry grabs it and goes after his foot. Draco is laughing as he squirms, dodging another attack and going mercilessly for Harry’s sides. 

The next few minutes are spent in an all-out tickle war, getting tangled in the bedding and wrestling each other for control. It ends with Draco pinning Harry’s hands on the bed and Harry being too tired and laughing too hard to fight out of his hold.

“See, Potter?” Draco pants, a triumphant grin splitting his face. “I win. Better get used to it.”

In truth, Harry doesn’t mind. He knows what he’s signing on for. He knows that in the end Draco always gets what he wants. And in this case, Harry wants it too.

**Author's Note:**

> Consent is mainly addressed in terms of alcohol use. This fic explores the idea that flirting and sexual advances which are made while inebriated should not be taken as genuine interest or consent, and that consent cannot be given by someone who is drunk.


End file.
